


Stars in the Dark

by Chaos_Elemental



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Barrows Brothers - Freeform, Gen, Have some goddamn peace, Let the boys, Morytania (Runescape), Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Elemental/pseuds/Chaos_Elemental
Summary: Akrisae reflects on how things are post-Endgame for the Barrows brothers. (Alternative title: The Barrows Wights Have a Goddamn Nice Day for Fucking Once.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Stars in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday meteor | i love verac!

The priest raised his arms, as though imploring someone above him; the sun, perhaps, though there was none to be found in the gloom of the little house, despite the holes punctured in the roof. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes, reverent, as though to block a glare only he could see.

“There is glory,” he said, his voice gentle, yet strong. “There is hope. There is light, beyond the darkness and the clouds. You do not need to see it to know it.”

He turned his gaze down to the congregation in front of him. They were ragged; scattered amongst the decrepit chairs, pale and shivering in their meagre clothing. It was a far cry from the clean white churches of his childhood, where the seats were full and the stained glass windows painted the pale marble in radiance, and the preacher’s voice filled the building with an echoing boom. 

However, every eye here was on him, and every look was attentive. 

He took a breath — this was unnecessary, but it was a hard habit to break.  _ Every place you speak his name may become a chapel, _ he thought.  _ Every chapel a palace, every word a ray of light. You know this. _

“Even if we cannot see it, we feel the wind upon our skin,” he said. “We know of cold and warmth; we hear thunder, even if its form lasts only a moment. So is his presence; so is the way of Saradomin. His voice reaches far, and light touches us all; even if we cannot hear or see it. For the hope he grants us is glory, and to have faith bestows that taste upon you. Do not despair, for he is with you.”

He locked eyes with one woman in the front row clasping hands with her husband, holding a child on her lap. Her face and hair were ashen. However, he could see a few streaks of gold though the greyness.

A heart that no longer beat felt a twist. 

“We are with him, and he is with us,” he said. “In light and in darkness. And, knowing this, we may be warmed; with this, we may feel the sun again; and with it, we may know there is a better tomorrow.”

He bowed his head. “Know this, and Saradomin will be with you always. May he guide your path, and may he guide your way home tonight.”

The townsfolk said nothing as he ended the sermon, staying silent as they shuffled out of the little building. They spoke little in general, and when they did, it was no more than hushes and whispers. Though the vyres no longer plagued the town as they once did, the inhabitants of Burgh de Rott still waited with baited breath, expecting nothing but betrayal. 

Akrisae could not blame them. He hadn’t been expecting much of an audience, and hadn’t gotten one at first. The first time he’d entered through the gate everyone had hidden, too fearful to even try and confront him. 

He’d ended up giving a sermon to a lone snail on the banks of the swamps, too slow to ooze away fully before he finished.

(That was probably for the best. He was rusty with his preaching, having not done it since he was fresh out of squirehood. He had stumbled through the hymns with alarming ineptitude.) 

The second instance, there were two children, curious enough to creep out of hiding and listen. That time, he didn’t deliver so much a sermon as he did field their incessant questions, from why his robe was the colour it was to how Saradomin curled his beard. He’d answered these to the best of his ability, grateful to have an audience, and even getting through a little of  _ Domus _ . 

The third time, they brought more questions, and their parents. The fifth, he’d been pointed to one of the shacks, where there’d been chairs and more people waiting. And that had been that.

He carefully closed the tattered holy book, taking care that the damp pages didn’t rumple. As he did, he felt a light touch on his arm.

He looked over. The woman from earlier was there, holding a meagre loaf of bread, which she shoved into his hands without a word.

Akrisae shook his head, pushing the loaf back. “Please,” he said. “Keep it for yourself. I don’t need it.”

The woman, however, refused to take it back, her tired eyes unusually fierce. “Take it, at the very least,” she said. “We haven’t had a priest in years. We must repay you somehow.”

“Give it to someone who needs it, then,” he said. “That will be payment enough for me.”

Silently, she took the bread back. As she did, he felt her hand brush his arm, and her eyes widened. 

“You’re cold,” she said. “Take some firewood, plea —”

“No,” he said, firmly. “We’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Slowly, she nodded. Then, without another word, she turned and left, though not before glancing back to him with a look of worry. 

Akrisae sighed. This was also unnecessary, though this was perhaps for effect more than anything. He tucked the book under his arm and headed over to the door, surveying the little town in front of him. 

The torches and scattered campfires did little to cut through the gloom, though he could see through the darkness as well as if it was noontime. Even when he would pull his hood as low over his face as he could, as though to deny this particular affinity, there was no denying the glow of his eyes underneath. 

He headed to the gate, nodding to the villagers that passed. Most nodded back, which was also refreshingly new. Before, they’d simply looked down, or run and hid. 

As he reached the edge of the town, he noticed the lone figure against the mist-covered horizon, working one of the meagre fields at the border. It looked like tiring work, digging through the swampish dirt, and the figure was spattered with mud as he fought the ground like he was waging battle. However, Akrisae could hear him humming a happy tune.

Nearby, a great stack of marsh wood lay, freshly split — save for one stump, which served as the resting place for a rather large axe.

“Dharok!” Akrisae called out. “Take a rest, for Saradomin’s sake. If you till that soil any more it’ll turn to soup.”

The figure paused, momentarily, before observing the ground beneath him. He then gave a shrug. 

‘It’s the rocks!” he shouted back. “Every time I get a good row going, I hit one!”

“And so?”

“And so I have to dig them out!” he shouted back. “Can’t farm with rocks. Why, it’d stunt the potatoes, and the cabbages wouldn’t sprout right, and all the garlic would just wrap round and make it impossible to pull…”

Akrisae left him to his tilling, concealing a slight smile.  _ Stubborn man, _ he thought, swinging the gate shut behind him. Dharok was humming again, punctuating the tune with the swing of the tiller and the occasional metallic ting as it hit a stone.  _ Ah, well. I’d be a fool to tear him from his farming. _

He headed over the bridge to Mort'ton, noting the fresh planks that had been laid anew over the once-rotted bridge. The swamp would overtake it within a matter of months, of course, eating it away with its damp and atrophy. But for now, the smell of fresh wood overcame the stench of rot, and the beams held strong under his passing feet. 

As he approached the little town, he could hear two sounds floating over the constant low insectoid hum of the marshes. One was the steady tapping of a hammer, heavy and sure. The other, more infrequent, was the soft  _ twang _ of a bolt leaving a crossbow.

Karil waved as Akrisae approached the little temple, neatly sidestepping the remains of miscellaneous shades in his path. Torag was cheerfully hammering a beam into place, while Karil was standing guard beside him. Occasionally a Loar shade would slink up from the ground and claw at the newly-built temple walls with a screech — only to be met by one of Karil’s bolts.

“Do they ever stop coming?” Akrisae said, stepping over a pile of stacked shade corpses. Karil shrugged.

“I’d want to think they’re slowing down,” he said quietly. “There are a lot of them down there…”

An encroaching shade hand attempted to slip through one of the gaps in an unfinished wall. 

Torag, never pausing in his steady swings, neatly brought his hammer down on it. The undead creature screeched, snatching its arm back through the gap. 

“We’ve been managing,” Karil said. “Building the pyres will take some time, but once we’ve cleared the surface, the temple should stand strong.”

Akrisae nodded. “Have you seen Guthan at all?”

“By the catacombs entrance, I think. Ahrim’s with him.”

Akrisae muttered a thank you and made his way over to the little cave. The mob of shades did indeed seem to be thinning, and he could see signs of repair on the dilapidated buildings of Mort’ton. The villagers had made themselves scarce — he’d yet to see any venture down to Burgh de Rott, even after being cured of their affliction — but the signs of life in the town gave him hope yet.

Ahrim had his back to him when Akrisae approached the northwest corner. He was kneeling in front of a small tree, muttering to himself and holding a silver sickle in a trembling hand. The tree was weakly glowing with a soft green light, and he could see a couple of scanty buds on it slowly beginning to grow.

Akrisae walked over to him. He sensed Ahrim bristle at the intrusion; ignoring it, he knelt down next to him and muttered the incantation for  _ Fertile Soil. _

The tree shuddered, and then bloomed, sprouting forth silvery leaves that gleamed in the dark. 

Ahrim’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you were a druidic mage,” he said.

“I’m not,” Akrisae said. “It’s a Lunar spell. I picked up a few from doing missionary work in Rellekka. Swamp soil doesn’t yield much without a little help, I suppose.”

“Well, er. Thank you,” Ahrim muttered. “Grasping this cursed pag— ah,  _ druidic  _ spellset has been difficult. Even for someone of my skill,” he added hastily.

“You’re getting better at it.” He glanced over the surrounding area. The greenery was patchy, but still a welcome change from the dull brown-grey rot of the swamp. “I suppose Filliman’s been teaching you?”

Ahrim nodded. “He’s been… helpful. I’m thankful to have someone with his knowledge aiding us.”

Akrisae noticed he held the sickle a little tighter, his grip on it still awkward.  _ He’ll learn, _ Akrisae thought.  _ Slowly. But he’s getting better. _

It was then that he spotted Guthan in the patch of marsh-grass, his back hunched over. He was carefully tamping down the soil around a freshly-planted sapling, its branches dotted with healthy green leaves. Akrisae stepped over to him, minding not to tread on the other freshly-set plants and bushes along the way, and cast  _ Fertile Soil  _ once more.

Guthan muttered a thanks, before giving the soil one final pat, and then sitting back and admiring his work. 

He said nothing, for a while. At one point, a rare breeze passed, hissing through the grass with a soft sigh and jostling the leaves on the little tree, so bright and green in the dreary swamp that it nearly glowed.

“Do you think she would like it?” Guthan said, his voice soft.

Akrisae nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think she would.”

* * *

Akrisae made his way back to the mounds, his footsteps barely making a sound. Far off in the distance, he could hear the melody of metal striking metal, which only became stronger as he continued. 

The forge’s glow was practically a miniature sun in the gloom, soaking the sides of the old buildings to the north of him. He turned left, savouring the heat he felt on his face as he got closer, unconsciously timing his steps to the metallic clangs that resonated within.

Only Linza could figure out how to jury-rig a smelter in these swamps, even with all the damp, scanty coal, and the fact that nearly every bit of wood in a fifty-kilometre radius was soaked through with muck. Nevertheless, the fire she’d started all those months ago had never gone out. As such, since then, her work had never ceased.

She was hunched over a complicated-looking piece of ironwork when he arrived, wearing her smelter’s helmet. She didn’t need it, of course, but old habits died hard for the newly dead.

He waited politely for her to finish; and when she finally seemed satisfied, dipping the metal in the water trough and enshrouding herself with steam, she flipped her helmet up.

“I’ve fixed up your mace,” she said as a greeting. “It’s far better now.”

“I didn’t know it needed fixing.”

“Any piece of equipment can be made better,” she said. She reached under her workbench and handed him the weapon. “Here, give it a little shake.”

He did. With a metallic  _ clunk _ , several heavy-looking spikes extended from its sides. 

“If you’d like, I can add a retractable chain,” she said. “Flails seem to be all the rage nowadays.”

“Er, it’s quite nice,” he said politely, turning the morningstar over. “But don’t you think you should be upgrading your own equipment?”

“Ha! I’ve done  _ that _ ten times over,” she laughed. “It’s gotten to the point where nobody wants to fight me. And Torag  _ still _ won’t let me make him a two-handed hammer…”

“Oh, you know him. I think he’ll give up dual-wielding the day Guthan takes off his helmet. Besides, the adventurers seem to like it when you put the prototypes in the casket.”

“Yes, well, they appreciate quality craftsmanship!” She grinned. “One day I’ll get it through that thick skull. He can’t be stuck in the Third Age forever.”

She seemed to think of something, and the grin slowly faded from her face. “Have you seen Verac, by the way?”

“Not since this morning. Where is he?”

“On the mound,” she said, pointing. Sure enough, Akrisae could see a lone figure, sitting cross-legged on the gravehill, unmoving as only the dead could be.

“He’s been like that for an hour,” she said. “He went and patched up the bridge, and helped Dharok move rocks and such, but he’s barely said a word to anyone”

“I’ll go and talk to him,” Akrisae said, setting the mace down. “Thank you for the upgrades. The, er, spikes are rather nice.”

She nodded, and he left her to the anvil. 

Verac said nothing as the cleric approached, sitting next to him on the hill and appreciating the relative silence. The mist hung in low pools around the barrows, undisturbed by even the slightest of winds. Even the reassuring sound of Linza’s hammer sounded more like a mournful echo.

Akrisae looked at the wight next to him. He was silent, his eyes glowing like stars in the darkness, lost in thought. 

“Today’s been rather well,” Akrisae said. “The villagers seemed to like the sermon. Mort'ton is coming along nicely. And Ahrim’s finally getting a grasp on plant magic.”

Verac said nothing, simply looking to the sky as though he were searching for something.

“The vyre patrols seem to have stopped,” Akrisae continued. “Vanescula is keeping to her word, I’d like to believe.”

Verac did not reply. 

“If you have time, I think the tomb could do with a bit of a sweep. It’s getting rather dusty down there, and —”

“Akrisae,” Verac cut in, his voice quiet and low. “Do we deserve this?”

“Deserve what?” He gestured to both of them. “The undead curse bit?”

“No,” Verac said. “Though that, if anything, is penance for our mistakes... No. I mean…  _ this _ .”

He held out his hand, turning it over with aching precision. “Freedom. We can do whatever we please now, and it… it feels  _ wrong. _ ”

“Why would it be?”

Verac shook his head. “Perhaps it’s been so long… So long that our limbs have been locked, and our actions not our own. Perhaps you would not understand, being so new. It feels strange, Akrisae. I’m not sure…”

He paused. “After everything I’ve done, I shouldn’t be allowed to have this. The villagers… the adventurers... I avoid them. They’re too kind! There is one who even leaves cakes…”

“She does seem rather fond of you.”

“I should be fighting!” Verac snapped. “I should be punished for what I’ve done. I must pay —”

He was cut off by Akrisae, who laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve paid enough,” he said, quietly. “Too much, in fact. We all have.”

Verac said nothing, at first. Then he released a dusty sigh. 

“You find it so easy to forgive,” he said. “How? Least of all you should forgive me, considering…”

He made no movement, but Akrisae knew his gaze was settled on the stars in his vestments. 

The priest has taken care to brighten them, using what dyes and stains he could glean from the swamp plants and the occasional pilfered onion. He told himself that it was so his congregation could tell it was him in the gloom. This was a lie; the glow from under his hood was a clearer indicator than any dull yellow could be. Instead, he suspected, it was more a reminder to himself than anything. 

“It’s not easy,” Akrisae said, “finding peace. Especially when we’ve been denied it. But I believe that if we cannot find rest elsewhere, we must find it within ourselves.”

He paused. “Though that kind of peace is perhaps hardest to find of them all.”

(Those six statues in the park could very well be gravestones; and perhaps they would have been, had there been any bodies to bury. He wondered if there were seven now; if their ranks were joined by a hooded figure, memorialized in a way that ash could not be.)

(He hoped there were seven. But not eight. That was an honour he would never dare hope to deserve.)

“Nevertheless,” he continued. “If anything, we can make good of the freedom we’ve been granted.”

Verac said nothing, but simply, slowly nodded. 

He looked up to the sky again. It was beginning to grow dark, the pool of light from the forge growing ever more distinct, and the will o’ the wisps flickered in between the swamp trees.

“Look, brother,” Verac said. “Perhaps if we watch long enough, then we can see the stars.”

Akrisae followed his gaze. The cloud-cover remained constant here, with not even the weakest sunbeams escaping through the blanket. However...

“Perhaps,” Akrisae said, “if we watch, some light might slip through.”

_ And even if it doesn’t, _ he thought, as the clouds slid over above him,  _ we can make our own. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to fennfics for idea-bouncing and beta-reading.


End file.
